


in tenebris veritas

by deadlybride



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Episode: s02e14 Born Under a Bad Sign, Established Relationship, M/M, Painplay, Rough Sex, Season/Series 02, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29270376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: After a very wild night, Dean's having a rough morning. Sam's is worse.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 18
Kudos: 249





	in tenebris veritas

**Author's Note:**

> written for the SMPC on livejournal

Dean wakes up feeling like he's been hit by a truck. He actually has been hit by a truck—he can make the comparison. He blinks and somehow that's sore, too. The bed warm, the sheets clammy-feeling where they're twisted down around his waist. He turns over and muscles that haven't been used that hard in a long, long time wrench and creak, and he gets onto one elbow, barely, and that's when the hangover really hits. Jesus.

Just after eight, according to the clock on the bedside. Shitty motel blinds letting in just enough light to see that the day outside's thin and grey. He wants water desperately to clear this taste out of his mouth but water means standing up, which means using his body, and that just doesn't sound plausible. Alone, in bed, so he can't make Sam go for it. He pauses, dragging his hand over his face. Alone. Where's Sam?

Empty room; open bathroom door and no sound coming out. With difficulty he levers himself up to sitting and ow, _fuck_ , that's—okay. That hurts, too. He licks his lips. Standing takes a minute. His head throbs when he's upright worse than it did lying down—but even if he wants to tip back over, gravity has just reminded him that pissing is something that should happen soon, like now, like right now—so it's shuffling to the bathroom and realizing, christ, the tendons in his thighs are—every step hurts, from his legs wanting to give up to his head pounding, and when he finally makes it into the bathroom he fumbles on the light and flinches from it and he's such a wreck that he sits, to piss, eyes squinched closed, trying to remember how the hell this went so wrong.

Long time since he's been this hungover. Long time since he can remember getting actually blackout. Not even after Dad—he shakes his head and regrets it, the back of his skull throbbing like the bone wants to fall out and spill his useless sloshy brains down into the toilet bowl. He grips the counter with one hand, angling his dick down into the bowl with the other. When he's done he feels—wet, and frowns, and when he lurches back upright to flush he turns around and there's—red ribbons, in the water. Like he's—

He gets a wad of paper and dabs, cautious. Sting—oh. That's—a lot more blood than he thought. He looks at the dark-red tissue and then folds it over so he gets another dry side and leans over the counter, pressing it careful back against himself. Looks up, in the spotty mirror, and sees: dark mouth, dark circles under his eyes. His amulet's swung around completely backwards, dangling against his back. He's pasty-white, sick-looking and sweat at his temples, and when he stands up he sees his chest and there's the new tattoo Sam made them get, raw pink sore skin just under where his raw pink bullet-hole's barely healed up, and below that there's—a circle of bruising around his nipple that he touches, wincing, and it's abraded, swelled and sore, and when he looks down there's—yeah. Teeth marks. A bruise on his ribs. A bruise on his hip. He pulls the wad of toilet paper away and the bleeding's slowed, but it's still dark-wet and obvious, and he looks himself in the eyes in the mirror and says, out loud, "What the fuck."

A shower later, he feels—less like roadkill but not quite human. The pressure of the water hurt his chest and he stood for a long time just bent with his neck under the spray, trying to remember the night but it's all—patchy, strange. Dizzy with booze. Is he still kinda drunk? Probably. They went to the tattoo artist yesterday because Sam was still too damn nervous about the charms ("What if we lose them? What if it's in a pocket and my jacket gets torn off, or something?") and Dean had been so worn down by all the fretting and freaking out and those awful, apologetic looks Sam kept giving him when he redid his shoulder dressing that he finally agreed, fuck, they could try the tat option if it would get Sam to just shut _up_ about it already, and Sam looked so stupid-relieved when Dean agreed that he couldn't back out, even when the beefy biker-looking dude was holding up the gun and raising his eyebrows waiting for Dean to get into the chair and Dean remembered why he never, ever, ever wanted to get a tattoo, ever, at all. But Sam was already done and he couldn't back out, now, without looking like the biggest pussy in the world, so. Tattoo. It fuckin sucked just like he knew it would, but again there was Sam's relieved face, and when they both had been wrapped up in saran like a friggin tuna club Sam was so glad and relaxed that he said, _hey, want to grab a beer?_ like he hadn't said in like two months, and then—

He has to actually lift his knee with a hand to get back out over the rim of the tub. His thighs inform him that he's a douchebag and he agrees, but he can't just hang out in the shower for the rest of his life. Awesome as that would be. He's careful, drying off, barely patting at his torn-up chest and cautious with his ass, but there's no more red on the towel when he pulls it away. Before the shower he had two aspirin; he takes two more, standing naked in the steam, and guzzles a glass of water in quick gulps until his stomach's sloshing. Next up is caffeine, food, and clothes, in whatever order he can manage them, and he gets out into the room and finds his jeans slung over—the table, for some reason—and he's just managed to work them on and is buttoning up when the motel room door opens and there's Sam, hair fluffed and big dumb brown jacket on and a coffee carrier in hand and he says, "Wow, finally awake?" and Dean says, "You asshole," and Sam blinks and then Dean rolls his eyes and says, "Give me that coffee before I shoot you, Sammy."

Coffee, and fried gold too, out of a greasy paper bag. Dean inhales the hashbrowns in about three bites and then wraps both hands around the coffee and just breathes it, for a while, perched careful at the table on one of the 60s bucket chairs. Decent cushion, but he should really make Sam bring him a pillow.

Except: Sam doesn't look relaxed and unworried and cheerful anymore. He's sitting across the table with his hand over his mouth and his coffee going cold, and he looks… "Don't have a stroke," Dean says, and Sam shakes his head and looks away, and… Jesus. Dean sighs. That's constipated Sammy-face if ever Dean saw it. "What the hell, Sam."

"I—" Sam starts, and stops. He rubs his jaw, where he's got two days of growth, and Dean bites the inside of his lip and remembers in a brief shock the feel of Sam dragging his face down Dean's belly, last night, scratching tease—while Dean squirmed, laughed, dizzy with wanting him. He takes a sip of coffee and lets his stomach roll warm but Sam's still looking strange, sorry. Sam licks his lips, eyes low and distant on the carpet. "You, um. How are you doing?"

Nice and vague. Dean raises his eyebrows but Sam won't look at him so the effect's lost. He says, light, "Well, Sam, I feel like the bathroom carpet in a Pittsburgh to Philly Greyhound," and Sam closes his eyes, looking miserable. Dean frowns. "What?"

Sam leans forward over his knees, locks his hands behind his head. "I didn't remember being so—" He shakes his head, hair split between his knuckles. Dean always wants to tug it, when he does that. Sam blows out a long stream of air. "I shouldn't have lost control like that. I'm sorry."

"Should be," Dean says, leaning back a little in the chair. Ah—god, that's an interesting muscle to pull. "I think you tried to bite my nipple off." Sam looks up and his face is a misery, and Dean tips his head, bewildered. "Dude. Relax, we—okay, so we got pretty drunk. Had a wild night. Worse things have happened."

Sam's eyes go all over his face, and drop to his chest. Same expression he was wearing when Dean changed the bullet dressing that first night, like it was his fault somehow that a demon had shot up Dean using his body, and that's just—"I'm fine," Dean says, more seriously, and Sam nods but doesn't meet his eyes, and then he says, "I'll take a shower and then we can get on the road whenever you want," and disappears into the bathroom, and Dean sits back in his chair sore and wondering, watching the closed door.

When they started screwing—not long after Dean's heart malfunction, and the reaper, and all that mess. Drunk then, too, though not enough that they could make excuses in the morning. Sam gripped his shirt and breathed hot in his face and said _can't lose you, not you too,_ and Dean heard the echo of what he wasn't saying and thought about burning, but he covered Sam's hand with his and tipped his face up and when Sam kissed him there weren't bolts of lightning, and the earth didn't open up to swallow them, and when the sun was just coming up over the horizon and the room was full of that thin silver light Sam leaned over him and touched his cheekbone very carefully, looking at him and not seeing, Dean thought, anyone else, and so—well. It was okay. They acted like teenagers for a little while—fumbling under the covers in the dark, missing each other's cues—but it was never a mistake. Never something to apologize for.

Dean finds a shirt and lifts it over his head very carefully, but the cotton still chafes, painful. An overshirt, and half-assed comb of his hair, and he looks pretty much the same as he always does, but he still can't really walk without looking like a geriatric. When Sam comes out of the bathroom with damp hair shaggy around his face and his mouth still set and thin, Dean's set up on the half-made bed with Sam's abandoned-and-reheated coffee and Kojak reruns on the TV, and he says, "Can't go anywhere yet, let's just stick around for a while," and it's clear Sam doesn't know what to do with that but he's not going to argue, not as guilty as he looks. That means Dean's got a day or two, to figure out what to do with him.

There's the Kojak reruns, and then Waterworld. Dean shuffles to the bathroom and sits, again, and it burns and stings but the red's minimal. He washes his hands and looks at himself in the mirror, muffled Costner coming through the door, and then bites his lip, hard. Harder. When he lets go there are toothmarks and then the skin floods dark red and he wonders. Losing control. Not shocked, but guilty.

When he comes out he leans against the doorway and Sam's chewing his thumbnail, his face pointed at the television but clearly not seeing it. "Hey, Conan," Dean says, and Sam's eyes jump to his face. Guilt, again. "I want pizza for lunch and you're in charge of the beer run."

Sam nods. Relieved to do something. Dean shakes his head. "Better get a twelve-pack," he says, and when Dean's sprawled on his half of the bed again with half a sausage-and-olive warm in his belly and a beer resting cold against the sore inside of his thigh, he's feeling honestly—okay. So it hurts. There's worse things in the world than being hurt.

He presses two fingers through his shirt over the hurt skin of the new tattoo. With the bullet-scar and the tat and the bites it feels like half his chest is just hamburger, but it's not unbearable. "How's your tattoo doing?" he says, and Sam's quiet for a second before he says, quiet too, "Fine." Dean says, "How about your head?" and he can tell Sam looks at the side of his face before he says, again, "I'm okay."

Dean licks his lips. He says, "I only remember, like, twenty percent of last night, but the part where you had my knees up against my shoulders was pretty fuckin' hot," and Sam makes this weird small noise, like someone's flicked his balls but he's trying to stay quiet. Dean rolls his head to the side and Sam's holding a mostly-full beer, staring down at it like if he doesn't move he won't get in trouble, or something. Dean drags his teeth over his lip again. It feels tender. "You like that, too? Folding me up like that?"

Thing is they haven't… They've blown each other, and jerked each other off, and fucked each other, too, learning. But it's been—a little careful, Dean realizes, now. A little soft. Good, beyond good, so good sometimes he feels like the top of his head's come off and he's just gonna have to be in a happy coma in bed for the rest of his life, but it hasn't been wild, like it was, last night. Dean was so drunk he remembers half-falling on the way to bed, slamming down on one knee (another bruise), and Sam had to pick him up, laughing, pushing him down with hands that weren't careful. Sam's teeth in him, that he sort of remembers too, and Sam sucking his soft whiskey-dick while Dean groaned loud at the ceiling, and he remembers saying _just fuck me already, fuck—_ and from the blood Sam must've taken him at his word—and there was Sam pushing his legs up and up, stronger than Dean and forcing him wide—and Dean gripping Sam's hair and groaning for it—and getting fucked so hard he slid into the headboard and had to get a hand up between it and his head so his skull wouldn't get cracked. Sam holding his jaw up and dragging teeth down his throat to where his nipple was already chewed-up sore and biting again and Dean's hips and shoulders cringing and saying _stop, stop_ , and Sam breathing warm there and kissing it, instead, and that hurt too but it made Dean stroke his hair, hold him there.

His dick's chubbing up, a little. Remembering. Sam's silent, on the other side of the bed. Dean licks the corner of his mouth and says, "You want to see?" and Sam blinks, and Dean gets the pizza box off the bed and goes to his knees on the mattress, careful, and when he's peeling off his overshirt Sam finally says, "Dean."

Hard to say what he means. Questioning, caution? If he's not going to elaborate Dean's not going to ask. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head, careful to keep the amulet in place, and when he can see again Sam's looking at him, expression a mask. Dean drops the t-shirt, touches a few inches below the one nipple. They're both bruised but the left one's worse. He pulls at the skin and the sore radiates upward and he doesn't bother hiding it. Sam's looking at his chest and not his face.

"Didn't know you liked biting so much," Dean says. Sam's lips part. Sometimes before Sam would drag his teeth light over Dean's lip or throat, soft tease. He wonders how often Sam wanted to clamp down. He brushes his finger higher and the skin's tight, budding up from how he's turning himself on. He hisses to touch it but it's worth it for the look on Sam's face. "Fuck, that hurts."

Sam swallows. "Sorry," he says, but—his cheeks are red, in the hollow under the bones, and his hand's clenched on his thigh.

Dean lets his head fall forward, goes for the button on his jeans. "Yeah, I know," he says, letting Sam lie, and unzips, and peels down the waistband to show the bite on his hip, dark purple. "How about for this one?"

"God," Sam says. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Yeah," Dean says, and sinks down to his hip because he really is too hurt to crawl forward and get up in Sam's lap like he wants to. "Get over here," he says, instead, and Sam hesitates but comes, and Dean sinks back onto his elbows even if that makes the skin on his chest pull sore and says, "Help me out," and Sam looks him full in the face, for a long couple of seconds, before he tucks his fingers into Dean's waistband and draws his jeans down, oh-so-careful and slow.

He kneels there at Dean's feet and Dean spreads his legs and doesn't hide how he flinches, the tendons not recovered, not at all. "Ah," he says, "I think you might've made me do the splits," and he puts his hand there high on the stretched-sore inside of his thigh and says, "Sam," and Sam leans forward and slides his hand up, too, warm and dragging. Big, when he cups the muscle, and the soft squeeze enough to make Dean's dick swell all on its own. "Got me where you wanted me, right?" Dean says, and Sam's eyes jump from his dick to his face. "Made me do exactly what you wanted."

Both of Sam's hands on his thighs, now, the thumbs dipping low against the sore insides. "You were begging," Sam says, voice queerly low, and Dean's stomach goes melty-hot. He—yeah, he did. He remembers now. Telling Sam please. Telling him to just do it, and Sam did.

He reaches out, now, and Sam leans forward over him, carefully held up off his body but with one hand still there between his legs. "Tore me up," Dean says, and Sam blinks. Real surprise. Dean gets a hand around his wrist and guides him, his fingers a little cool, blunt and dry, and when he touches Dean's asshole it really does sting, enough that he flinches away. Sam's fingers retreat but Dean doesn't let go of his wrist and Dean breathes out and says, "Do it again," and Sam looks back and forth between his eyes and then presses against him—and harder—enough that he presses inside a little, and Dean breathes through it and draws up his knees, hard now all the way. Fuck.

Sam's eyes are dark, the pupils big enough he looks high. The look on his face is familiar. "Not drunk this time," Dean says, and touches Sam's stomach, dragging down to his belt. "Are you?"

Sam pulls his hand back and drags it up Dean's belly, instead. Dean glances down—no blood—but Sam's hand is spread wide, and his thumb brushes against the stinging bruise, knocking the amulet out of the way. "You're nuts," Sam says, soft, and Dean raises his eyebrows and says, "Takes one to know one," and Sam leans down then and kisses him, not soft at all but knocking Dean's mouth open like he owns it, and Dean fists both hands into his shirt and drags him close, opening up for it, wanting it like Sam wants it.

Sam's shirt off, his own tattoo fresh and raw there, and Dean drags his nails under it, a blunt rake that leaves white lines in Sam's skin. Unbelted, unzipped, and Sam spits into his hand, slicks himself up inadequate and shining. Dean's breath is coming fast and he thinks he should be scared but he isn't. Sam touches him again, damp fingers, and says, "It'll hurt," but Dean just spits into his own hand and grabs Sam's dick, thick and heavy and exactly what he wants, skims his palm over the tip for the extra wet and watches Sam's eyelashes dip, watches his chest swell on a deep, raw breath.

When Sam pushes inside Dean slams his head back against the pillow and claws into Sam's sides but Sam doesn't stop, dragging in on the sore hurt skin and forcing Dean wide. When he's seated Dean drags in air and squirms his hips up and gets his thighs around Sam's waist, but Sam pushes upright and grips one of Dean's knees and pushes it higher and it hurts—fuck, it really, really hurts—but Sam's stronger than him and Sam's watching his eyes and Dean bends, folds. He throbs, inside. Sam's eyes are all over his face. "Okay?" he says, and Dean gulps and says, "Fuck, _no_ ," and gets his hand in Sam's hair and says, "Sammy, come on, come on, you're killing me here—" and Sam smiles at him, kind of helpless, wondering.

"You're so crazy," Sam says, and kinda laughs—and fucks in, finally, shoving hard so Dean jolts on the bed and makes some stupid yelping sound he'll pummel Sam for, if he ever mentions it again—and then Sam's not smiling, really. He grips Dean's shoulder and says, "Tell me to stop," like Dean would ever do that, ever, and then with him raw inside and probably making Dean bleed again and even though Dean's not gonna walk right for a week, Sam brushes Dean's cheekbone with curled knuckles, soft, and looks at him, like…

Dean tips his hips up, feels Sam shift inside. God, it hurts. He wants it. "Sammy," he says, asking, and Sam's thumb strokes his lower lip, and later—when it's over, and he's stung and aching and Sam's cautious, careful—Sam's head on the pillow, his eyes dark and steady—he'll know that whatever pain there is, it's worth having Sam honest.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/642494177194737664/fic-in-tenebris-veritas)


End file.
